ctive protest against the shrilling advance
of the woods. A solitary 'cello made dogged resistance, knowing its
cause hopeless, but determined to sell life as dearly as possible. But
the 'cello, too, went down and for a bar or two the flutes and oboes
sang a paean of victory. Too soon. Upon them, like a tidal wave, swept
down a hurricane of brasses and shook the hall with its resonant
thunders.

That was the moment our artist at the piano had been waiting for. His
heavy figure straightened up; it seemed to swell to monstrous
proportions, forcing orchestra and leader out of the vision and
consciousness of his listeners. His face now was all eloquence. A divine
wrath almost made his eyes blaze as he prepared to hurl himself at the
silent, yet quivering instrument. His huge hands hovered over the
keyboard ready to fall and destroy. His eyes ran over the keys as if
searching for the vulnerable, for the vital spot. Back and forth his
eyes ran, and his outstretched fingers kept pace with them in the air.
But those fingers could find no resting-place. Still the piano remained
silent. And then came the inevitable reaction. Such passion could not
last without crushing player and audience alike. Seven ladies in the
parquette were grasping the arms of their chairs, and three women in the
upper balcony had seized the arms of their escorts, as the brasses
crashed once and died out. The flutes for an instant reappeared, to make
way in turn for the violins, which now began timidly to peep out from
their hiding-places. They grew bolder; they joined hands, and once more
their insistent story quivered and sang throughout the house. And as
they sang, the player at the piano, exhausted by his supreme effort,
sank more and more into his indifferent former self. His form collapsed,
the fire in his eyes died out, and the powerful hands wearily drooped
and drooped till they rested once more on the player's knees. A sigh of
relief swept over the hall. Human emotion could stand no more. The
audience could hardly wait for the last throb of the violins, to break
out in rapturous applause. The master rose, bowed sorrowfully towards
nobody in particular, and walked off.

"Did you watch his face?" asked my neighbour. "Have you ever come across
such utterly overpowering individuality? I have played for fifteen
years, but if I played for fifty years I could never even approach art
like this."

XXXIII

THE IRREPRESSIBLE CONFLICT

"The arg